


Regress

by telekinesiskid



Series: Mornings are the hardest [3]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Gansey is not doing too well, Imaginary Hornets, M/M, Noah re-enacts his death, OT3, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-27 20:31:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6299302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telekinesiskid/pseuds/telekinesiskid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Gansey,” Ronan shouts down at him, the volume of his voice meeting Gansey’s screams. He’s so afraid he thinks he could throw up. “Gansey, it’s me, it’s Ronan! Please fucking stop—you’re fine! There’s nothing there!”</p>
<p>But Gansey doesn’t hear Ronan. He only hears the drone of hornets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Regress

**Author's Note:**

> aaaaand the third installment of PTSD boyfriends!!! we've come full circle
> 
> kudos to my lovely wife [kiiouex](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kiiouex/pseuds/kiiouex) who still beta'd even though she on code camp!

Ronan doesn’t know if Adam notices it too. One moment Gansey is talking and laughing, still with them, pen etching across a corner of his open journal, and then the next his eyes are glazed over, and he presses in the hard, thick, black lines of an abdomen, a thorax, a head, of intricately patterned wings, so light that the tip of his pen barely brushes the paper.

Adam must notice, Ronan thinks, because he doesn’t look anywhere near Gansey’s vicinity anymore.

The three of them fall into an uneasy silence, and only two of them are keenly aware of it.

Gansey flinches inward when Ronan pushes a hand to his shoulder. “Gansey,” he mutters, smoothing a hand over his back, and he _feels_ Gansey’s muscles uncoil, little by little, releasing the tension he didn’t even know he was wound so tight with.

He lowers the pen from his hand. He swallows, thick enough to hear. “Yes?”

“I’m hungry. Let’s go out.”

Gansey nods – just little jerks of his chin that he keeps up for too long. “Yes,” he says, voice soft and strange. There’s a missed beat, and then he suddenly throws a brilliant smile over his shoulder that turns Ronan’s face grim. Like how he looks at a lie. “That sounds like an idea. Nino’s?”

“What else?”

“Good… Good.” Gansey flashes another too-happy smile at Ronan as he works out his chair from his desk and pushes himself onto his feet with one hand, the other gingerly going to touch an ear.

Ronan and Adam exchange a look. It was a look they only ever exchange when Gansey falls quiet and touches his ears.

“C’mon.” Ronan grabs the hand at Gansey’s ear and fiercely holds it, tugging him along behind.

 

It doesn’t happen often, but it happens often enough. Noah’s been dead seven-- almost coming up to eight years now. For every year that they grow older, Noah stagnates as usual. But it’s not just stagnation anymore – the fear that they’ll one day be too old to appreciate his humour, or no longer be able to relate to him as a peer but as a child. Noah’s decaying; he can’t even hold onto his own shape anymore. Ghost senility, Ronan had once called it, as a distasteful joke, but ever since he’d said it he can’t think of it as anything else. Noah only ever seems to drop by these days to remind them, in painstaking detail, of how his life was violently taken from him.

Nine minutes in, and no one has left yet. It’s a new feat, a new record. Ronan doesn’t like to think of it in terms of desensitisation but he knows that that’s exactly what it is; he’s seen Noah die before – four times to be exact – and so he knows what to expect. He knows when to brace himself for that wince, for that impact, for the ear-blowing silence of the first hit and the soundless cry that’s knocked out of Noah when he crumples to the floor. Every time this happens, he watches a little more. Every time it happens, it gets a little bit easier. He’s hardened and ripped open all at once.

Adam is the one to break first this time. Ronan doesn’t move his head but he hears the rustle of sheets, the sniff of totally-not-tears, the pad of bare feet, the click of the bathroom/kitchen/laundry door closing.

_Why are we friends with a ghost?_ Ronan thinks, dead inside and unutterably miserable. _How could this possibly end well for anyone?_

His eyes glance off the alarm clock. It’s been almost twelve minutes now; he wonders if he’ll actually make it through the entire re-enactment this time. What a sense of accomplishment that will leave him with. He can stick it on his barren resume. _After four unsuccessful attempts, can finally watch friend die from start to finish._

Noah’s flat on the floor, rumpled and crooked, like a kid run over. Most of his head is caved in, murky and dark with blood that looks more like mud. His body still judders with every smack that’s mercilessly beaten down on him, but it’s not a reflex anymore. It’s not a reaction to pain. Noah’s now past the point where he can feel pain. _But he’s still alive,_ Ronan thinks, stomach churning, heart heavy.

Finally, the blows stop. The last one happened without Ronan’s notice and he waits, ever anxious for the next one, but it never comes. Very slowly, Noah’s body starts to lose its colour and dissipate, until the stains have vanished, until not even the suggestion of Noah remains.

Gansey releases a breath like he’s been holding it for twelve minutes.

Ronan looks at him. He’s about as pale as Noah, his hazel eyes blown wide and still trained on the spot where Noah just lay. There’s a certain intensity to them, like nothing else could tear his gaze away if it tried. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t do anything.

Ronan touches his knee but Gansey doesn’t react. “Gansey.” He shakes him, but still nothing. “Gansey.”

He hears a door quietly squeak open from behind.

“ _Gansey._ ” Ronan scoots around so that his face is just inches from Gansey’s, noses almost touching. His fierce eyes dart between both of Gansey’s; they’re wide and shiny and present, but not present in this moment. They’re faraway, somewhere else. _Seeing_ something else.

Gansey’s hand shakily rises towards his ear but Ronan snatches it up before it can. “Gansey _,_ there’s nothing there, okay – you’re _fine._ ”

_Please be fine._

 

Ronan’s chin juts over to a bloodied scab on Gansey’s arm he hasn’t seen before. “What’s that?”

Gansey takes a look at it. He’s quiet for a while as he cultivates what he thinks is an acceptable answer. “Must be an insect bite. I’ve always been terrible at not irritating them.”

“Put a plaster over it,” Adam suggests. “You know we do have insect repellent.”

Adam doesn’t see it, but Gansey shoots him a thin, humourless smile. “Of course,” he murmurs, looking at the scab and away again. “Insect repellent,” Gansey hums, thoughtful, but Ronan knows what the scab is really from.

 

Gansey fidgets, a lot and too much. If his hands aren’t occupied – if his _mind_ isn’t occupied – he scratches. If he doesn’t have a stress ball to squeeze on, or a page to turn, or a thread to pull, or a lip to touch, or a nailbed to pick at, he scratches. Like he’s itchy, but in a trivial and distracted sort of way. His nails find his skin, any old patch of skin, and they scratch and scratch and scratch until Ronan catches him with blood under his nails and Gansey takes in the fresh wound like he doesn’t know how it got there. Even with nails he deliberately keeps short, he still breaks the skin.

Ronan wonders if his frequent disappearances only make it worse. He wonders if Gansey wakes to the imprint of his head left in the pillow – the only evidence that he’d ever been there at all – and if the very first thought that enters Gansey’s head is _hornets._

“He’s getting worse,” Ronan mumbles at Adam as Gansey takes a call from Malory in the other room. Adam doesn’t look at him but he gives a small nod, to show that he’s listening. “He’s been scratching. He’s been… ugh.” Ronan cuts himself off with a sigh; he screws his eyes closed and pinches the deep furrow of his brow. “He’s started drawing hornets again. And spacing out. What if he has another full on panic attack?”

Adam’s shoulders lift in the barest of shrugs. His voice is small. “I don’t know.”

He flinches as the back of Ronan’s hand smacks into his arm. “You could be a little more involved, Parrish. If you don’t take care of him then who’s going to take care of you?”

Adam exhales, all the way, until his chest has collapsed and sunken in. He shakes his head helplessly. “I can take care of myself.”

 

Ronan is thrown out of sleep by the sound of Gansey screaming.

His sits up, chest heaving, more awake and alive than he’s ever felt before, and his eyes cast around Monmouth until he finds Gansey in the throes of an attack: his body thrashing, his legs kicking out at nothing, his head ducked and his hands-- God, his _hands_ , clawing at his face enough to pull blood like ribbons.

Ronan rushes up so fast that his feet send the mattress skidding across the floor and he takes half the sheets with him. He collapses hard at Gansey’s side and the blind panic pumps him full of adrenaline; it’s too much and too fast that he feels like it will burst right out of his skin. _“Gansey, I—”_ he starts, and then stops, because he’s suddenly overcome with the crushing distress that _he has no idea what he’s doing._

His restless eyes move over the room behind him, in search of Adam, but he’s nowhere in sight.

He looks frantically back at Gansey; he manages one brief glimpse of the state of Gansey’s red-streaked face and immediately, clumsily, Ronan grabs his arms and pins them to his sides. Gansey’s head continues to toss and turn and smack into the floor, trying to throw off a hive that isn’t even there. “ _Gansey,”_ Ronan shouts down at him, the volume of his voice meeting Gansey’s screams. He’s so afraid he thinks he could throw up. _“Gansey, it’s me, it’s Ronan! Please fucking stop—you’re fine! There’s nothing there!”_

But Gansey doesn’t hear Ronan. He only hears the drone of hornets, in his mouth, in his eyes, in his nose, in his ears, in his ears, in his ears.

“ _Fuck,”_ Ronan screams, and his mind is a smoking, sparking wreck, fresh from a catastrophe; he scrambles to think of an idea but he can’t hold onto a single thing when every new whine and sob and shriek that comes from Gansey’s throat blows it all out of his head and drives the point in further. _He’s in pain, he thinks there’s hornets, he can’t see me, he thinks he’s dying, he thinks he’s dying, he thinks he’s dying—_

_Mint,_ a voice he’s not sure is entirely his own supplies, and Ronan’s wet eyes open, his mind suddenly clear and focused. Unendurable emotions are benched and ruthless pragmatism sets in.

_Where the fuck is Parrish_

“I’ll be back— _don’t scratch,”_ Ronan yells, and he has to let Gansey go to bound for the potted mint plant on Gansey’s desk. He just saves himself from slamming into it and, shaky as all hell but as careful and slow as he can be, he grabs handfuls of the plant and rips them up without ceremony. He runs them back to Gansey, skids on his knees, and he has to wrestle Gansey’s hands away from his face once more. Gansey fights him every step of the way, and it _hurts,_ but Ronan pushes himself to use the force he needs to keep Gansey from hurting himself.

“It’s _mint,_ Gansey,” he cries, holding the plants right under Gansey’s nose. They brush his skin, just lightly, and Gansey thrashes and wails anew, until Ronan holds them so they hover just above him, powerful scent the only air he can take in. “Here,” Ronan says, tearing off a mint leaf and placing it halfway in Gansey’s mouth. Gansey winces at the contact but he tastes it, familiar and heady, and it slips further in.

It starts to work. Gansey’s cries die down to choked sobs and his head resorts only to nervous twitches. His face is steady enough now that Ronan can see it’s streaked with tears, streaked with inflamed-red scrapes, streaked with blood that could’ve come from anywhere.

Ronan, raw with hope that this will all be over soon, feeds him another mint leaf. “You’re okay,” Ronan breathes, and Gansey almost reacts like he heard it. His eyes scrunch up before he dares to peel them open, and they’re about as red as the marks on his skin. He blinks rapidly up at Ronan, uneven breaths slowing, and Ronan feels like the very weight of the earth is crushing his pounding heart.

“Ronan,” Gansey croaks, and tries to flex one of the hands Ronan’s still keeping down. Instantly, Ronan’s fingers thread with it and he grips it with all his might, grounding him, bringing him back. “Ronan,” Gansey tries again, more conversationally than Ronan feels comfortable with, and he clears his sore throat with some effort.

Incredibly he tries to smile, like everything is fine, and Ronan hisses into his face, “Don’t you fucking do that you piece of shit— _don’t you act_ like it’s all okay and there’s nothing to worry about.”

Gansey stares at him like he doesn’t know how he should act then. But he nods. He tips his head to the side in what looks like shame. “I… I’m sorry you had to see me like that.”

Ronan scoffs. It’s hard to do, but he starts to unclench his hand from Gansey’s wrist and the mark he leaves behind is white.

Everything starts to calm down and return to something approaching normal. Ronan backs off and gives Gansey some space to sit up. He doesn’t express it, probably for Ronan’s benefit, but he’s sore; one hand runs over the back of his head, which he had rammed into the floor like a madman just minutes before, and one hand gently prods just one of the many marks clawed into his face. His eyes are unfocused, sad, and he slowly turns his head up to the window on the wall beside him.

Ronan looks at Gansey, then at the window, then back to Gansey. His arms are still tense, still shaking. “What?” he demands.

Gansey shakes his head just so. He sounds distracted, not quite like himself yet. “I thought I’d seen a… On this side of the glass.”

Fear floods back in and drowns out all reason once more. Ronan doesn’t think; he just grabs Gansey and hauls him over to the mattress, chucking a sheet over him. Ronan finds a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue from the bathroom/kitchen/laundry and curls it up menacingly as he roams the windows, on a mission to search and destroy all that can destroy Gansey.

He does find a wasp on a sill. But it looks like it’s been dead for weeks.

Ronan bashes it and bashes it and bashes it, until it’s just a black smudge.

When the red haze clears and he goes to bin the magazine, he sees Gansey is back up and by his desk, pawing mournfully over the uprooted chunks of mint. The plant looks like it was trampled and dug up by dogs. “I’ll get you a new one,” Ronan mutters from between gritted teeth, stomping down the trash.

Gansey turns to look at him curiously. Ronan can’t stand seeing Gansey’s face like that: strewn with ugly, pink blotches that will take days to fade. He’s a king, and kings aren’t supposed to be anywhere near the trauma of war; they aren’t supposed to have their handsome faces scratched up.

Gansey opens his mouth to speak but Ronan cuts him off. “Just,” he says, raising a hand for something like mercy. “Tell me that you’re okay. Don’t lie to me, but tell me you’re okay now.”

It’s not fair, Ronan knows. It doesn’t leave Gansey with a whole lot of options other than to genuinely _be_ okay.

So Gansey smiles and decides to say nothing at all.

**Author's Note:**

> awesome - I think this series is complete now. thanks so much to everyone for reading!!!
> 
> also come yell at me on [tumblr](http://telekinesiskid.tumblr.com/) if you'd like


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